


Terminus

by WishingStar



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, and then a sequel-ish thing happened, trigger warning: suicide, well I went and wrote myself one, you know how sometimes you just need a reason to cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishingStar/pseuds/WishingStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ter-mi-nus (n)<br/>1. a final point in space or time; an end or extremity<br/>2. the end of a transportation line or other travel route</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Natasha found them on the riverbank.

A flash of red through the underbrush caught her attention, spurred her to pick up her pace while murmuring in her earpiece—"Stand by, Director, there's something..."—before she saw what the something was.

Steve's motionless form lay in the mud, unmistakeable in his blue and white and red-spattered uniform. Someone—black vest, dark stringy mop of hair, plated chrome glint—hunched partly beside and partly over him. Natasha's gun came up and the safety went off, automatically, as she approached.

The Winter Soldier had his face buried in the star on Steve's chest, his hair splayed in all directions. His metal arm was slung forward over the red stripes, elbow bent in an awkward half-embrace. His left hand, fingertips to knuckles to wrist, was stained rust-brown-red. His right hand rested over Steve's face, which was turned away from Natasha. Palm-down and fingers spread, as if hiding his eyes.

Natasha, suspended in a place where it wouldn't be real if she didn't ask, stepped on a twig instead.

The Soldier's head came up slowly, answering her question with red-rimmed eyes that met hers, blinked, traveled down the barrel of the gun pointed at him from three feet away, and blinked again. She saw the shivering tension in his shoulders, the tremors that ran down his not-even-human arm as his fingers tightened in the fabric of Steve's uniform. The tracks on his cheeks that weren't clean, but glistened in the late afternoon sun.

Natasha kept her hand raised and her gun steady.

The Winter Soldier bowed his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a simple mood piece. Now it's two mood pieces with a fix-it tacked on the end.


	2. Chapter 2

Light on his eyelids. Quiet. Warmth. Bucky shifted and stretched, wondering how he'd scored what felt like an actual mattress to sleep—then curled inward instead, flinging up one arm to block the light, trying to block out everything that had come rushing back. Mud on the riverbank. The Black Widow. A halting, mostly-inaudible conversation with someone not present, and later five SHIELD agents and two paramedics, one of whom scribbled on a clipboard with a shaking hand while the other sedated Bu—the asset with something clearly not as lethal as it should have been.

Now this.

He might have willed himself back to unconsciousness, but more likely he was being monitored for signs of waking. After far too soon, he heard the hiss of hydraulic motion.

"Hiding under the covers won't make it go away, you know."

Jarred by the speaker's brusque tone, Bucky sat up to look at him. Huh. Nick Fury. Confirmed kill. Maybe they gave him something lethal after all. Bucky wasn't delusional enough to think it might be Steve waiting to meet him, if that were the case. Steve hadn't gone where Bucky was going.

Bucky sat, and Fury stood, in a bare concrete room with a heavy door in the corner and an observation window along one side. He had a narrow but real mattress and a thin blanket, along the wall farthest from the door. They'd taken his tactical gear but left the cotton shirt and boxers underneath. They'd washed his hands and face, too, it felt like. Blood under his nails, though, still.

"Agent Romanoff said you'd come quietly. If I'd known how quietly, I wouldn't have bothered sending backup. Not the Winter Soldier's usual M.O., sitting on his ass at the scene of the crime, waiting for law enforcement to pick him up."

Bucky tasted blood. He'd bitten through his lower lip. Just now.

"Romanoff believes you've broken Hydra's hold on your mind. Have you?"

No. Not in the way it mattered.

"What's your name, soldier?"

Fury wanted him to say _James Barnes,_ because that was his name before Hydra killed Barnes and made him this—this—

"I don't have one."

"I see." Fury's single eye bored into his, like he understood that Bu—that the asset wasn't being entirely forthcoming. "Do you understand what you did today?"

Like he was a child. Like there was a chance he _didn't_. Like—well. He hadn't understood when he was doing it, had he. Not until the floor had collapsed beneath them and Steve had fallen, and _he'd_ fallen, and some deep-seated subconscious memory had made him twist in midair and reach upward, not down, for Steve's hand and _then_ the words had come back to him—end of the line—till the end of the line, pal—

"I'll ask one more time. Do you understand what you've done?"

The asset sucked his bloody lip. "Yes."

"Why did you kill him?"

Only one possible answer. "Orders."

"Orders? _Orders?_ " Fury lurched forward, closing the space between them. The asset had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. "Did you have orders to make him suffer first? Kill him slowly? Because it sure as hell looked like it." Fury spun on his heel and paced a circle on the concrete floor. "You had three bullets left in two different guns. You had eight knives on you, when they brought you in. So did you shoot him? Cut his throat? No, you beat him to death with your fist. Official cause of death: blunt force trauma, that's what's on the coroner's report. You caved his face in. Pieces of his skull got lodged—"

Bucky screamed. He didn't know how to physically explode on command, so shutting Fury up or drowning him out was about the best he could hope for. He didn't reach for words, just kept the scream going as long as his lungs could manage. Did he think it would help? It didn't.

"I'm not here for histrionics, Barnes."

"Don't call me Barnes," Bucky—no, he _wasn't Bucky_ —whispered. His throat felt hoarse. "Why am I here? You should've killed me."

"Should I? Some of my staff think so. They'd like to avenge Captain America's murder. But you knew him best, so you tell me: is your death something Steve Rogers would have wanted?"

Unfair. Cheating. Steve didn't know. Steve wouldn't have wanted to die, he only did because Bucky _wasn't Bucky anymore_ , Bucky was already dead. Hydra's asset killed them both.

"So I'll tell you what's going to happen." Fury crossed his arms. "You're going to stay here, in this room. You're going to tell us everything you know about Hydra, and assist in rooting them out of their remaining bolt-holes any way you can. You will submit to any and all interrogation, testing, and whatever else SHIELD deems necessary to ascertain how deep Hydra's conditioning goes. Once we're satisfied that you're no longer a threat, we will discuss your relocation to less heavily guarded quarters. Captain Rogers gave his life in service to SHIELD; if you want to atone for what you did to him, you can start by carrying on the work he left unfinished. Does that sound fair to you?"

No. But he had no better ideas, so he forced a wan smile. "It sounds like a start."

"Welcome to SHIELD, Mr. Barnes." Fury extended his right hand. "I wish it could have been under better circumstances."

Close enough to shake hands. Fury had been trained as an agent and he was mistrustful by nature, which meant—

Bucky pounced.

Fury shouted, doubtless some kind of verbal alarm trigger, as Bucky tackled him to the ground. There. Mini-revolver concealed at his hip. Bucky sprang back and pointed the gun at Fury. "Back off."

"Put that down, Barnes. I'm not your enemy."

"You are right now. Back off. Through the doorway." Bucky advanced, drawing on every ounce of threat and swagger he could muster. Fury retreated. A few steps from the doorway, he darted sideways and slammed a button on the wall. A thick glass sheet slid between them, partitioning the room in two, shutting Bucky inside and Fury outside.

"Backup will be here in less than a minute," Fury warned. He must be nearly shouting, for Bucky to hear him. "And that glass can withstand machine-gun fire. Whatever you're trying to pull, it's not going to work. There's no way out."

It would and there was. He had almost a minute. Bucky hadn't prayed in over seventy years, but he thought he could knock one off inside a minute. _Ready._

Steve, pal, you should've killed me first, but I understand why you couldn't. It's not the kind of thing you live with, afterward. Here's doing us both a favor.

_Aim._

The asset never did know fear.

_Fire—_

Bucky woke in a hospital bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To-o-otal chicken here. Bok bok bu-CAW. Stay tuned for ~~more furious backpedaling~~ an explanation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I don't actually hate Nick Fury. I did not originally intend to throw him under the bus. But let's face it, he has a track record of doing exactly this, and as a writer I now understand why.

The ceiling and walls were white, the furniture was white, the sheets were white, the machinery was gleaming silver—the overall effect was unbearable brightness, which satisfied Bucky on some subconscious level that this room wasn't Hydra's doing. Even if he did have wires attached to his head. Why wires?

"I can't keep the levels steady. The whole thing's crashing—"

"Never mind the simulation, focus on his vitals. Getting ripped out like that—"

"Director, sir, I don't know what happened."

"He killed himself." Bucky recognized Nick Fury's voice. Fury sounded... grudgingly impressed? "The son of a bitch put a bullet between his own eyes. Didn't even flinch."

Of course. Nick Fury: confirmed kill. If he'd been this much of a bastard in life, Bucky could see why they'd get stuck with each other afterward.

"Does that answer your question, sir?" one of the workers asked.

"It answers _one_ of my questions. Something tells me—"

_"What the hell was that supposed to be?"_

Bucky sat up. Nobody looked at him. They were all backing away from a ruffled-looking Natasha Romanoff, who strode across the floor, grabbed Fury by the collar, swept his feet from under him and slammed him into the nearest wall. "What the _hell_ , Fury?"

"Nothing you didn't agree to." Fury managed to sound composed even while being half-choked. His eyes shot to Bucky. "Both of you."

Bucky peeled the electrodes off his head, one by one, with his left hand; his right shook too badly. The room looked familiar, though he couldn't say why. Natasha's presence surprised him. Never mind what she was doing here, how did he _know_ her? What had he agreed to, and why did he feel an overwhelming certitude that he didn't want to know, that he preferred this total confusion to whatever he'd been feeling moments prior? Desperation—loss—

Natasha shifted her grip, bringing the blade of her hand to Fury's throat. "I don't know what game you think you're playing, but the lying ends now."

"It's the truth," Fury rasped, then coughed. "We had to find out if Barnes would revert back to Hydra programming if he didn't have Rogers constantly running interference."

"And that's all we agreed to." Natasha's voice was quiet steel. " _Separating_ them, to make sure it could be done safely, so Rogers could quit playing chaperone and go back out on assignment. But you, you saw your chance and took it, didn't you? Why bother asking questions about Hydra when you could poke through the Winter Soldier's brain like an open book?"

"I was in that simulation same as you," Fury retorted. "My actions came about the same way yours did: _because we thought it was real at the time._ "

"Steve." The word burst from Bucky's lips, unintended, as he pieced the conversation together. Natasha and Fury both turned their heads.

Natasha loosened her grip and stepped away from Fury, toward Bucky. "Do you remember the truth?"

Bucky hated the do-you-remember game, but surprisingly, this one came when he reached for it—reeled in like a fishing line. Avengers Tower. Steve's friends—Stark, the Black Widow, the archer. Fury saying _looks like the Winter Soldier's lost his touch._ Mud on the riverbank. Steve coughing up water. Steve, battered but whole. "He's alive."

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

Fury spread his hands in a don't-know gesture. "We assumed the test would take three hours or more. You cut it short after—"

Bucky didn't care if he'd cut the test short. Bucky was moving, stalking toward Fury. "Where is he?"

"How should I know?" Fury backed smoothly away, somehow making it look like something other than a retreat. "Look, I didn't control what happened. The _only_ parameter I put into the system was that Rogers had to be removed from the picture, completely unreachable, for the duration of the test. The simulator worked out the least disruptive way of causing that to happen."

_"Least disruptive?"_ Natasha whirled on Fury again, this time shoving him in the chest. "That was the most disruptive situation—"

"Not according to the simulator's algorithms. Rogers' presence in Barnes' life today is predicated on millions of variables, each with the potential for a butterfly effect that would have derailed the whole situation. The system was programmed to remove him while changing the fewest possible variables. In short, it determined that _if_ Rogers were currently unreachable, the most likely explanation would have been that he'd died on that helicarrier."

Bucky found he'd stopped moving. His feet had fused to the floor. _Most likely explanation..._ That meant, it meant Steve would literally sooner die than let them be separated. Which, well, Bucky knew or could've guessed that much, but he never knew he'd come so close—so close to _killing_ him—

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. Natasha.

"I'm taking Barnes to see Rogers," she announced, staring coldly in Fury's direction. "It's a ten-minute drive to the Tower, where I assume we'll find him, and six minutes back this way if you ignore traffic signs. If I were you, I'd think carefully about how far away from here I want to be when those sixteen minutes are up. Something tells me Rogers won't much care whether you knew what you were doing or not."

"Natasha," Fury tried, as Natasha guided Bucky past him to the door, "we've been working together for—"

"Yes, we have. That's why I'm giving you this warning. Go back to being dead, Nick. It was easier on everyone."

Bucky didn't see Fury's face as he left, because he didn't bother looking.

*  
*  
*

Clint had one of those automatic tennis-ball shooters set up in one of the workout rooms, which he used to practice shooting small, flying targets. Steve was trying his shield throw against it and having more trouble than he'd anticipated; tennis balls weren't enough to reverse the shield's momentum. He needed the distraction, though. He'd never left Bucky alone this long, and even with Natasha keeping an eye on things, he worried.

The tennis-ball shooter sputtered and died, suddenly. Steve glanced around, surprised, and found Natasha standing by the wall, extension cord plug in hand. Bucky hovered in the doorway.

"Hi," Steve said, hooking the shield over his back, trying not to sound too relieved. "How'd it—"

He was cut off by a trembling armful of Bucky Barnes, which transformed into a lapful of the same as Bucky dropped to his knees and Steve instinctively sank with him. "What, Buck. What happened?"

Bucky burrowed his face into Steve's side, practically under his arm, and gave a low moan. Steve rubbed his back and looked to Natasha, who was delicately picking something out of one eye. She shook her head with an odd, sad smile.

"Give him a moment first," she said.


End file.
